30
Quentin had never been prouder of an MMM issue. Sending the pieces to print, he leaned back gruffly in his office chair and then wheeled it, swooping around toward the window, where he could glare down with brooding eyes at the tiny, squirrel-like people below.
Charlotte’s feature was better than anything he’d ever written. His heart burned with that knowledge, sensing that the prose had a maturity to it that his writing would never master. The moment after Maggie read it, she burst into his office, the pages pressed against her breasts. She clicked the door closed behind her, her eyes brimming, wet.
“Tell me you helped her with this,” she demanded, saying the first words since they’d fought at the Greenwich Village bar the previous week.
“I didn’t. She won’t talk to me,” Quentin sa
